Garden Party
by SolarRose29
Summary: Remember that time Clint had to pretend to be Tony? Yeah, Clint doesn't like thinking about it either.


Gah! I can't believe I missed Steve's 100th birthday! Oh well, this is like a late post for that (even though it has zero to do with that)

Also, this is probably the fastest I've written something so...

* * *

"This is stupid."

Natasha sipped from her drink, gracefully disengaging from the group with whom she had been conversing. "Relax, Barton. It's only for a couple of hours."

"No, seriously. I know we've had to do some dumb stuff on the job but this is definitely the worst."

After snatching a fluted glass from a server's tray as she passed, Natasha glided across the reception hall and exited through the double glass doors into the garden area, where strings of lights provided more ambiance than illumination to the summer night. To her left was a large paved area, where musicians provided slow tempo songs while couples danced. On the right there was a pavilion with wait staff serving cocktails and horderves. She kept straight on the gravel path, following it through rows of blooming flowers and topiary to the fountain in the center of the garden. She rounded the water and offered the champagne flute to the lone figure on the other side.

"You're getting rusty," she murmured.

"Rusty?" Clint raised an eyebrow, downing nearly half his drink in one unsophisticated gulp.

Natasha hummed, though she was far too skilled to make it obvious whether it was in irritation or amusement. "Yes, rusty. When was the last time you worked undercover?"

Clint's eyes caught the low glow of the party lights as he half turned to observe the gathering. "I don't know if this can really be called undercover."

"At least it's a nice night for it," Natasha commented, gesturing vaguely at the clear sky.

"A perfect night to die," Clint mumbled under his breath.

He had to step forward in order not to spill his champagne when an elbow poked into his rib cage. "The whole Avengers gig has you spoiled."

"You're one to talk," Clint grunted.

Before Natasha could reply, the crunch of gravel announced they were no longer alone.

"Mr. Stark?"

Clint glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Standing at a reasonable distance, from respect or intimidation, it didn't much matter to Clint, was a man in an oxford blue suit. "I'm Henry Stikim. If you have a moment, I'd love to discuss what my business can offer you." He leaned forward, jutting out a hand to be shaken.

It wasn't hard to fake disinterest. Clint shifted his attention back to the view in front of him, feeling Natasha step closer to him and place a suggestive palm on the lapel of his jacket. Their wordless exchange unnerved the stranger and he let his arm drop.

"Of course, if this is a bad time…"

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him.

"You know what? I can see that you're busy. I'll have my people contact your people and see if we can't work out a more formal meeting." With that, the man edged away and went back to the main area of the party.

"How is this even working?" Clint asked, keeping his voice low. "Stark's got his face plastered everywhere. So why hasn't anyone noticed?"

Natasha moved her hand from his chest to his arm. "People see what they want to see. And of course the low lighting helps."

Clint snorted. "That's easy for you to say. You can go back to the air conditioning whenever you want. Meanwhile, I'm stuck out here, in this ridiculous tux, in the eighty degree weather."

"If you get sweat stains on that, he's going to kill you," Natasha said, turning and walking back up the path. "It's Armani."

"Hey, come on. Where are you going?" Clint called after her.

She tossed him a smirk over her shoulder. "To powder my nose."

"Great," Clint grumbled, disappointed to have his only source of conversation leave. A frog hopped onto the edge of the fountain with a wet smack. Clint cocked an eyebrow. "So what do you think about the party?" It croaked and splashed back into the water. Clint sighed, lifting his drink to his mouth again. "Yeah, me too."

\- - i - -

The ladies room was empty. Natasha set her clutch on the counter and spread out most of the contents, reaching first for her mascara, reapplying after switching channels on her earpiece. "How's it going, Captain?"

"So far so good. Although Stark won't quit humming this one tune. He says it's from a movie. The Impossible Mission or something?"

From farther away, Tony's voice came through the speaker. "Mission: Impossible. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Natasha felt herself smiling. "Aren't rookies adorable?"

"There are two things wrong with that-" Tony started but Steve talked over him.

"How's everything on your end?"

Natasha replaced the mascara with lipstick, pausing to respond. "It's been quiet. I don't know, Cap. Maybe our intel was wrong. Maybe this whole thing was just an empty threat."

"Maybe. I still would have felt better if Clint had just worn the vest." The frustration was evident in his tone.

"I hate to break it to you, Cap, but Clint and I have survived plenty of these kinds of missions before you showed up. We can take care of ourselves."

"I know you can. But you're on my team now. And I take care of my teammates."

"That's sweet, Cap. Really." Tony again. "Why don't you just wrap us all in bubble wrap and hide us in the closet while you sing the theme song from Barney?"

"Hey, less talking, more downloading," Steve shot back.

The door to the restroom swooshed open and two other women entered. "Alright, I have to go. Call me if anything changes." After Steve gave his assurance he would, Natasha made a show of replacing her cell phone in her purse. She smiled politely at the women and slipped back out to the main room.

Employing her considerable experience as a spy, she mingled with the crowd while simultaneously scanning each face for signs of malevolence. Although death threats weren't unheard of for Tony Stark, this particular one had seemed the most credible, given the ties to the company with the resources to carry it out. The fact that said company was also suspected by SHIELD of financing arms dealers was the reason they deployed their top agents. And so Natasha found herself keeping an eye on the party goers, acting as Clint's backup, while Tony and Steve searched through the upstairs offices for evidence.

\- - i - -

"Wow. I mean, I know I can be a little disorganized at times but this is just…" Tony trailed off, scooting the rolling chair closer to the desktop. "How am I supposed to find anything in this mess?"

Steve paused in his pacing and put a hand on the back of the chair, leaning over Tony's shoulder to peer at the computer screen. "I don't get it. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong specifically. But this might take longer than I originally thought."

Steve inhaled sharply. "How much longer?"

"It's hard to say," Tony muttered, clicking through files on the computer. "It's not like they're going to have a folder listed under 'Illegal Operations'."

"Just hurry." Steve pushed away from the chair and resumed pacing the office.

Tony tapped at the keyboard, gradually changing the rhythm to the song he started humming.

"Shh!" Steve instantly demanded.

"Look, I never get to be the one sneaking around doing spy stuff. Let me enjoy this one time-" Tony defended.

"That's not what this is about," Steve interrupted. "I think I heard something."

The humor instantly drained from Tony's face and he froze. Both men strained their ears, listening carefully. Steve quietly slid his shield from his back.

"Stay here. Keep working."

"Wait, Cap!" Steve was already out the door. Tony threw his hands up and swiveled the chair to face the screen once more. "Okay, keep working. Sure. No problem."

Steve slipped into the hall, gently easing the door shut behind him. He paused just outside the doorway, poking his head around the corner and running his eyes up and down the hallway. It was empty. Adjusting his grip on his shield, he moved quickly yet stealthily across the polished floorboards. He paused at the first door he came to, pressing an ear to it. Silence. He moved to the next door, finding it already open. It was empty, save for a few bookshelves and filing cabinets. A window was set into the wall opposite the door and Steve took a moment to cross the room and look out. It offered a view of the back property, overlooking the garden. Despite the late hour, most of the guests had not yet left, milling between the pavilion and the dance floor. Steve couldn't keep his eyes from wandering to where multiple couples swayed to slow music and he was helpless against the brief pang of wistfulness that washed over him. A muffled thud from nearby broke him from his trance and he turned his back on the window, hurrying from the room.

There was no doubt where the noise came from now. Steve could hear a series of metallic clicks and snaps through the door of the next room - a gun being assembled. He tested the knob, finding it locked. Wasting no time, he reared back and kicked the door down. Inside, there was a figure kneeling by the window, rifle in hand. The man jumped at Steve's entrance but recovered quickly, sighting through the scope and pulling the trigger three times before Steve could even enter the room. Chaos erupted outside, people screaming and running for cover. In two steps, Steve crossed the room and slammed his fist into the man's temple. He dropped limply, unconscious. As Steve pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt, Tony burst into the room, white-faced and wide eyed.

"What happened?" he gasped.

Steve gave the rifle a disdainful shove and it skittered across the floor, coming to a stop near Tony's shoes. Without giving Tony a response, Steve stared out the window, trying to assess the situation. The garden was nearly evacuated, the crowd having fled indoors. A few stragglers were hiding beneath the food tables or under chairs.

"Is anyone hurt?" Tony asked, joining Steve at the window.

"I don't know," Steve bit out.

"Who's that?" Tony pointed to a woman sprinting down the center path of the garden.

Steve instantly recognized her. Natasha. Which could only mean one thing - someone had been hit. _Clint_. Without hesitation, Steve climbed onto the window sill.

"Watch him," he ordered tersely, tilting his chin to indicate the slumbering shooter.

Tony didn't even have time to nod before Steve was jumping. He rolled as he landed, springing to his feet and racing across the grass, leaping over topiaries and flower beds. Ahead of him, Natasha was crouched beside a figure crumpled face down near the fountain. Steve skidded to a stop next to her, spraying gravel as he did.

Natasha reached for Clint, hands shaking, mind numb. Steve's panting breaths were thunderous and so close to her.

"Is he…?"

She grabbed Clint's shoulder and rolled him over, her brain on a loop of denial. Of all the missions they'd done together, this was the first time she'd failed him. He'd been shot and she hadn't even been there. She must have missed something. There must have been some clue she overlooked, some sign she'd ignored and now Clint was dead. Clint was dead and it was a terrible idea to use him as bait and they never should have done it and he was gone and-

"Ow…"

Natasha's heart missed a beat, throwing off her balance. She took Clint's face in her palm, turning it toward hers. "Clint?"

Steve dropped to his knees, his own hand skittering down the front of Clint's borrowed suit. "What… how…?"

A pained smirk cut across Clint's face. "Someone told me I should probably wear a vest." He fumbled with the buttons of his suit coat until Natasha took over for him. She undid the jacket and then the dress shirt beneath it, peeling it away to reveal the Kevlar vest beneath. Steve sank back on his heels, closing his eyes in relief.

"You told me you didn't need it," Natasha accused, fighting off the rush of so many conflicting emotions running high at the same time.

Clint had the decency to look sheepish. "I wasn't going to. But something about the way Rogers said I should…" He shrugged, grimacing when that brought fresh pain. "I don't know. I had a feeling I should listen to him."

Steve opened his eyes, a weak grin toying with his lips. "I'm glad you did."

"Are you okay?" Natasha queried, helping Clint as he struggled to sit up.

He supported his diaphragm with one hand, using the other to rub the back of his head. "I think it broke one or two of my ribs. And of course, hitting my head when I fell is a nice bonus."

"Come on. Let's get you taken care of." Steve gripped him under the elbow and assisted him to a standing position. He kept his arms there, supporting the archer as they limped toward the door.

"Hey! Anyone want to let me know what's going on?"

Natasha looked up. Tony was standing at the second story window, cupping his hands around his mouth as he yelled down at them.

"Oh right. Natasha?" Steve glanced to her.

"I'm on it." Natasha split away from the others, dashing up the stairs as fast as her high heels would allow. When she found the room Tony was in, she arched an eyebrow in irritation.

"This is the shooter?" She gestured to the unconscious man laying on the floor. Tony nodded. Natasha narrowed her eyes. "Do you recognize him?" After giving the other man's face a closer inspection, Tony shook his head. "Does the name Henry Stikim mean anything to you?" she pressed. Again, Tony shook his head. Natasha frowned, cursing herself for dismissing the unassuming man so soon. To think, she'd had the assassin right in front of her and he'd slipped by her. It was embarrassing and more than a bit humiliating.

"Why do you ask? Do you know this guy?" Tony watched her expectantly.

Rather than answer, Natasha whipped out her phone and notified Fury of the recent events. Once backup was on the way, she pulled on a pair of gloves and picked up the gun, the spent casings and the case it had all been kept in.

"Do you?" Tony repeated.

"I think the real question is do you realize how close you came to dying tonight?" Natasha cooly retorted.

That cheery thought shut Tony up quickly.

\- - i - -

After waving away the twelfth person to offer assistance, Steve focused back on Clint. The archer was lying on a decorative sofa, an arm thrown over his eyes. Steve nudged the man's knee. Clint glared at him from beneath his arm.

"What?"

"You should drink some more." Steve held out a bottle of water.

Clint rolled his eyes. "It's not the first time I've been shot, Cap. And I don't see what the water's going to do for my ribs."

"It might help the headache," Steve said calmly. The agent considered that a moment before accepting the bottle. Steve hooked his thumbs on his belt. "Looks like you've earned yourself some vacation time."

"Yeah. And all it took was a bullet to the chest," Clint huffed, setting down the now empty water bottle.

"What's the first thing you're going to do with all that down time?" Steve asked.

Clint lifted his arm off his face and stared Steve straight in the eye. "Shave off this ridiculous goatee."

Steve chuckled.

"And next time, why don't we have someone else be the bait?" Clint grumbled.

"I don't think Natasha or I can really pull it off as well as you can," Steve pointed out.

Clint groaned, replacing the arm over his eyes. "Yay. Lucky me."


End file.
